Pick
by sincerelymendacious
Summary: J.T. ponders his next move, and eventually comes to a decision.


J.T. stood at the rail of the porch and contemplated the small object he held between his thumb and forefinger. The guitar pick wasn't all that different from any other, nothing particularly special about it. Triangular, rounded at the corners, the brand name written in neat black cursive in the center. Color a deep green, the same shade as its owner's hair when the sun hit it just right.

Had that been why this pick had wound up in his pocket? About a week ago, on the last day of camp, Chops had accidently knocked over the case containing his picks while packing his stuff up, spilling them all over the cabin floor. J.T. had helped him clean up, gathering the picks that had scattered further away as Chops collected the ones that had gone under the bed. He'd kept this one, slipping it into his sleeve as he deposited the rest into the case. A dirty act, stealing from a friend, especially when Chops would have just given it to him had he asked for it. J.T. hadn't been able to untwist his tongue long enough to make the request, and so he'd had slid the pick into his back pocket while Chops' back was turned, adding yet another secret he was keeping from his friend to the steadily growing pile.

He turned the pick over, the porch light reflecting off of its shiny surface. Chances were, Chops wouldn't even realize it was missing. He'd bought so many with him (they were easy to lose, he had claimed) that he probably didn't know how many he had started out with. And if he should notice that he was down one green pick? He'd assume that it had fallen between the floorboards and then forget about it, never once considering that somebody would have taken it. None of this made what J.T. had done okay, of course, and the fact that he'd committed a theft, no matter how minor, just didn't sit right with him.

 _What in tarnation do I do now?_ he wondered, sighing as he lifted his eyes up from the pick. Dark clouds spread over the distant horizon- storm comin' on, it looked like. He'd have to go back inside soon, face his parents and their concerned, questioning looks. They were aware that something was up; he'd exhausted all of his deceptive abilities keeping his numerous secrets from Chops. Normally he'd have gone straight to them if he was having a problem, but even if they could accept that he'd fallen hard for his best friend- his male, Canadian best friend- what advice could they possibly offer him? Ma might know how a gal might go about winning a fellow over, but he was a guy who liked another guy, and the rules for that had to be different. Pa would be even less helpful; same with his friends here in Noble. At camp, he could have approached one of his more mature peers with this issue, like Quentin or Phoebe. Okay, on second thought, maybe not Phoebe, he'd heard rumors that her idea of wooing someone she liked involved setting them on fire. Not that it mattered now, camp was over, and he didn't have any way of contacting them at the moment.

The only person who he thought would be able to help him right now was, ironically, Chops himself. He reckoned that he could just call him up- "Hey pardner, found one of your guitar picks in my bag, must've gotten mixed up with my stuff. Ain't that something?" And then what? Make up some hypothetical situation and hope that Chops didn't wrangle the truth out of him?

A drop of water splattered onto the porch, followed by several more. J.T. closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of rain and wet grass. When he opened them again it was drizzling, a thin sheet of rain turning his front lawn a deep shade of green and muddying the dirt driveway that led to the house. The sky had darkened, a sure sign that the weather would soon get worse.

Chops would probably tell him to just confess to the person he liked. It's what he would do if he ever found himself in J.T.'s position, even if he expected to get rejected. Chops was direct, expressing his thoughts clearly and honestly, though never in a way that was rude or overly-aggressive (unless the situation warranted it). J.T. had always admired that about him, had always wished that he could assert himself so easily, instead of being so quick to avoid conflict by letting others walk all over him and bottling up his emotions.

A sudden gust blew in, sending a spray of rain right into his face. J.T. stepped back, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. The rain was intensifying, but J.T. wasn't quite ready to go back in just yet. He looked back down at the pick, sliding his thumb over its surface. If he did spill the beans to Chops about all of the strange, slightly exciting but mostly terrifying thoughts he'd been harboring he was near one-hundred percent sure that he'd be turned down (albeit very gently). He'd never once seen Chops show any interest in fellows in the years that he had known him, and although Chops had never mentioned having a crush on anyone, J.T. suspected that there was one girl at camp that had caught his fancy. Late one balmy summer evening, during a break in their nightly jam session, Chops had asked J.T. what he thought of Lili Zanotto.

"I think she's pretty," he had said with a bright grin as he re-adjusted a tuning peg.

J.T. had mumbled a "yeah" in agreement, his stomach twisting as he kept his gaze on a group of fireflies that hovered nearby. It hadn't been a fib- he did think Lili was pretty, but pretty in the way that those flowers she talked to were, and not in the way that had his heart fluttering and made his cheeks blaze hotter than the Oklahoma sun.

The next day Chops had told Lili exactly what he thought of her, in his usual half-serious, half-joking way. Lili had brushed the compliment off with a scoff and a roll of her eyes, but J.T. hadn't missed the light blush that had spread across her face, or the small smile that had disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.

They hadn't gotten together or anything, but the whole thing had been enough to convince J.T. that Chops didn't, and would never, see him in a romantic light. He could accept that, because Chops was his best friend, and he wanted him to be happy, first and foremost. He wanted to be able to just ignore his thoughts, wanted to just squish them down and shove them into that dark corner of his mind where he stored all of the other feelings that would be too difficult for him to talk about. He'd be successful at forgetting them for a while, sometimes going days without thinking about it at all. But then he'd recall something- a time when their hands had brushed, a gaze that had lingered too long, a jam session full of genuine emotion- and those feelings would come flooding back faster than a Thoroughbred crossing a field.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky and then, as if on cue, the downpour began, the rain pounding heavily on the roof of the porch. J.T. slipped the pick back into his pocket and turned away from the soaked rail, leaning against the off-white siding of his house. Confessing would, in theory, be like ripping off a band-aid; it would sting at first, but he'd feel much better once it was over and done with. And that might be how it worked out- he'd tell Chops how he'd felt, Chops would turn him down, and then things would go on as normal after a few days of awkwardness. But what if it didn't happen that way? What if this was too big and things couldn't go back to the way they were? Finding out that your main hombre had a crush on you would definitely be shocking. What if J.T.'s confession made things so uncomfortable that they ended up drifting apart?

No. J.T. couldn't risk ruining their friendship over some silly infatuation that, for all he knew, might fade on its own with time. The realization that he liked guys in that way was stressful enough, he didn't need to add 'in love with his probably straight best friend' to his list of things to worry over.

A loud clap of thunder boomed from above. From inside the house, his mother called his name. J.T. headed towards the door, having no reason to remain outside. There was nothing left for him to mull over- he'd made his decision, and that was to remain silent and hope that the ache in his chest would go away with time.


End file.
